


It's Only Forever

by Dream_Wreaver



Category: Labyrinth (1986)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-11
Updated: 2016-01-11
Packaged: 2018-11-02 22:34:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10954107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dream_Wreaver/pseuds/Dream_Wreaver
Summary: It's only forever, not long at all. A humble tribute to our beloved Goblin King.





	It's Only Forever

**Author's Note:**

> I was in a fairly bad place when I wrote this, I'm not going to lie. I had just found out what had happened and I cried for 45 minutes, the next day a day straight. But this is me, paying tribute to someone I loved. Gods Bless Goblin King

All in all, he supposed it could have been worse. Most people never had the chance to live their dreams, some only briefly, and then there was him. Decades, decades upon decades of doing what he loved and being immensely successful at it. On top of all that, he had kept his private life mostly private, managed to have a family. He had it all, so he supposed that some sort of divine intercession was needed to balance it out. No human could have too much happiness.

Eighteen months. That was how long he’d been fighting. How long he’d been pushing against the pain in order to create, to continue doing what he loved. He was tired. He was weak. And if he went out well, better to have gone out in triumph than in oblivion like so many others. He knew, the stars that often shone the brightest burned out the fastest: he had been extremely fortunate in that regard. His fan base spanned generations; several of his images, including his normal façade, were iconic. Almost everyone on the planet had heard at least one of his songs whether they knew it or not. Among men, he was almost a god.

To go out as a god was not a bad way to go at all. And if it meant he could finally rest, then so be it. To be honest, he had known his days were numbered. It didn’t mean he hadn’t hoped they were not, but somewhere deep inside him he had known. That was why he had pushed so hard, worked so hard to finish what he knew would be his last opus. He would leave behind a legacy few could ever match.

It was quiet. But such was the way these types of things usually were. Death seemed to silence everyone, no one ever really knew how to react with it, how to deal with it either. He had known loss, what human hadn’t? He knew all-too-well the feelings death left in its wake. He had simply hoped he would have had more time. More time with his family, more time with his fans, more time. But more time wasn’t enough. There would never be enough time.

He was in that in-between place. That realm where the gentle waves of sleep washed against the ever-corroding shore of consciousness. He wondered: if he allowed the tide to take him out to sea, would he ever return to shore again? Amazing, how philosophical one got towards the end of one’s life. He supposed it was human nature, only unlocking the solutions to life’s most difficult questions once they had no breath to utter them.

Slowly he dragged his eyelids opened from his half-resting state. He slowly looked around the room he was in. Did he recognize it? Perhaps. Did it really matter? Not in the slightest. The sound of a throat clearing caught his attention. His eyes slid over and saw a man with a pale white face, bizarre orange-red hair, and a some odd coin-looking marking in the center of his forehead. Accompanying him was a man all black and white, with slicked back hair and dressing in a white button-down with a black waistcoat over it.

They stared at him but said nothing. And he got the feeling they were waiting for someone else. A gust of cool air swept through the room, and he looked over: wondering when someone had opened the window, if there was even a window there to begin with. He looked back at his companions, but they continued to watch the open window. A slight rustling of feathers caught his attention, and when he looked over he saw a white and tawny barn owl perched on the sill.

The owl stared at him and cocked its head inquisitively, as though wondering what he was staring at. It alighted from the window and silently flew around the room, landing behind the oddly colorful man and the monochromatic one. When the owl stepped forth from the shadows it was no longer an owl but yet another man. This man had wild flaxen-spun hair, avian eyes, and dressed as regally as any fairy tale prince would.

But he knew that it was no prince who wordlessly studied him. Of course he knew, he knew them all. They were all parts of his life: different facets of his past. Ziggy Stardust, the Duke, the Goblin King. But they were still the past, he never expected to seem them outside of pictures ever again.

“What,” he breathed, “What are you doing here?”

The Goblin King cocked his head to the side like the owl he was. He twisted his wrist and a clear orb, a crystal, appeared in his hand. With a familiar quirk of his lips he said,

“I’ve brought you a gift.”

He was confused, “What?”

The Goblin King held out the hand with the crystal, “Do you want it?”

He shook his head, surely he was hallucinating, “I,” he cut himself off.

“Do you want it?” the Goblin King pressed.

“You’re not real, none of you are real,” he protested weakly.

The Goblin King smirked and gave a wry chuckle, “Oh, you really think so?”

“I brought you to life, me. Without me, you don’t exist.”

The Goblin King glanced at the men flanking them, each of them sharing a look. Finally, he chuckled once more,

“That may have been true, once upon a time,” he conceded, “But not anymore.”

He failed to understand, “How?”

The trio before him shrugged, “Some dreams, some ideas are so powerful they become real: provided enough people believe in them.”

His breathing was growing even more shallow, “I,” he worked out, “I see.”

“I’m afraid you don’t,” the King replied, “You have much more to learn,” he nodded to the alien and the monochromatic man and they strode to his sides, propping him up with their arms.

“I can’t,” he replied, “I’m finished.”

“You aren’t finished,” the King parried, “Not by a long shot.”

“But,” he took a slow, deep breath, “I’m so tired.”

“You won’t be for much longer,” another quirk of his head and the men were pushing him up more insistently.

He looked around, confused by what was occurring. The superior chuckle of the King brought his attention back to where it was supposed to be.

“Really now,” the King admonished, “You didn’t think we’d let you leave us behind, now did you?” he tossed the crystal up into the air where it vanished. And a finely gloved hand was extended out to him.

“Come,” said the King, “The journey is further than you think, and time is short.”

He glanced from the King’s impassive face to his outstretched hand. His breathing grew even more slow and ragged than it had been before. He knew there was fear reflected in his eyes, fear of the unknown, fear of leaving everything he knew behind.

“You are afraid,” the King noted, “Why?”

“I’m just a human,” he said slowly, “What human doesn’t fear?”

“Fear is a trivial thing, it is transient, fleeting. It does not do to dwell on your fear, it will not make it go away.”

“So says the weaver of dreams and nightmares alike.”

The King shrugged, “I can’t help it if you made me this way,” he said, “Take my hand,”

“Suppose I do,” he countered, “How long will I be gone?”

The Goblin King closed his eyes and smiled, “It’s only forever, not long at all.”

“Will I ever see them again?”

“That,” he paused, “is not for me to decide. Come,”

He reached out his hand, frail and shaking, and grasped at the Fae King’s. He was surprised by how warm the hand was, given that this was all probably one final dream. The King pulled him, aided by the alien and the Duke, until he sat upright and continued to rise to his feet.

When he stood full and tall he heard the sound of a weight slumping behind him. He felt light, rejuvenated, free. He looked down and saw the hands, the arms, of a much younger man.

“What’s this?” he asked, sounding far better than he had in months, “I feel young again.”

The King nodded and gave an indulgent smirk, “That is because you _are_ young again,” He nodded behind the young man that stood before him, “Mortal bodies were never made to withstand the powers of people like you. That is why they often destroy themselves far before a person’s time is meant to be up.”

“What do you mean?”

“Think of all the great men and women, the ones who seemingly died so young. It was no coincidence that they did. Though their means were different, they were souls who were far too powerful to be trapped in a mortal’s body. The body then proceeded to self-destruct; whether through illness, accident, addiction, all freeing the immortal trapped inside.”

“So, I’m immortal now?”

The Alien and the Duke returned to the King’s side. The King tilted his head once more, “When haven’t you been?” he asked in reply. From out of thin air an ornate clock-face appeared, “I’m afraid we haven’t much time. We must go now.”

The man nodded, silently saying goodbye to all those he would miss as well as the many more who would miss him. The four men silently departed, leaving nothing but a vessel behind.

Where they went to as the stars hung overhead, and the moon kept silent vigil I cannot say. But whether to the Underground or back to the stars, his flame still burns brightly. His life still lives on.


End file.
